


whom knowledge might exalt equal (they taste and die)

by zhujungjungting (runswithchopsticks)



Category: NU'EST, Produce 101 (TV), Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - War, Angst, Blood and Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 14:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12632922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runswithchopsticks/pseuds/zhujungjungting
Summary: Jonghyun walks through time, and Minhyun meets him every step of the way.





	1. 1592-2017

**Author's Note:**

> _Our death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by,_  
>  Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing ill.  
> Paradise Lost (4.219-20).  
> Hi guys! Thank you so much for clicking on this story. I hope you enjoy the work -- uh, I've been itching to do this concept for a long time.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I'm not a history buff and nor do I study history for a living. All the scenes depicted in this work are based on real events in history, but as I (obviously) didn't live through many of them there's bound to be inaccuracies; I've made it as accurate as I possibly could, but bear in mind I've only been armed with prior knowledge and Google... please don't take my retellings and apply them to whatever situations you may encounter in real life.  
> (The writing style I've chosen for this was also my attempt at something like Louise Erdrich's Love Medicine, which, by the way, is one of the most fascinating things I have ever read.)  
>  _And depending on what perspective you use when reading this text, it may seem like one giant mental disorder, or it may seem like an actual story. Your pick!_

**1592**

For today, and yesterday, and maybe even tomorrow, they say Jonghyun is brave.

“Do you trust him?” Minki asks, glancing over in Jonghyun’s direction, raising his head. He looks like he would be staring directly at the sun, and when Jonghyun sees his face, he thinks that Minki’s eyes are a strange color.

Jonghyun touches the barrel of the rifle tucked under his arm with his bare fingerpads. The wood is sleek -- smooth, for the most part, but there’s a slight indentation in the carving. He places his index finger in the depression. “Yes,” he says.

Minki hums as his response. His fingers play notes all over the handle of his own rifle, and if his hands were not covered with threadbare wool gloves, Jonghyun would be able to see the red mottling on his palms, as if he were stung repeatedly by the Devil’s hot poker. “I wish they would’ve put me on the cannons,” he murmurs, still looking up into the sun. From Jonghyun’s position, the giant rearing of the dragon’s head shields the light from his own skin, but Minki’s face is bathed in pale yellow.

“There will be more days for that in the future,” Jonghyun notes, and he stares ahead at the horizon, at the seemingly calm waters rocking around them, at the slivers of sunlight that skim their way across the gray and blue.

“Do you see it?” Minki asks, a hand held over his brow, but it’s not like he even needs to shield his eyes from the sun.

“Yes,” Jonghyun replies, and he rolls his shoulders, both of his hands gripping his rifle.

“Soon,” Minki says, and it’s his last word before he walks away from Jonghyun’s side, taking his position at the side of the ship, crouching down and placing the barrel of his rifle on the wooden edge.

Jonghyun later takes his place beside Minki, and he closes his eyes as the atmosphere around him is bathed in searing heat. He can hear the roar of the dragon’s fire vividly, as if the Devil were hovering right over his shoulder, breathing into his ear.

A round goes through his hand, tears through his skin, and it _hurts_ , but he looks at his palm and just watches it roll out, as if his flesh were a tunnel and the round nothing more than a pretty glass marble. There’s the splatter of hot blood over his uniform, but he can’t care, he has no time to care, because he holds up his hand and glances across from him, and _there_ \-- there he is, staring back at him, the head of his rifle raised, his hair flying in the wind, and there’s blood at his temple, but he blinks and rubs it away with the heel of his palm, all while maintaining his eye contact with Jonghyun.

Minki has a grip on the back of Jonghyun’s collar, and he forcefully pulls him down. His head thuds on the wood, and his rifle clatters to the ground.

“Yi’s been shot,” Minki says, later, his voice quiet, but it’s not like Jonghyun even needs to try to pick up his words. “We’ll be okay,” he adds, as if he were reassuring Jonghyun.

Jonghyun sees them scream, he sees their descent into the depths, their arms held high above their heads, the roar of the dragon casting a shadow over their despair. But there’s still a piece of them that hasn’t lost yet, and it will never become lost.

Jonghyun meets his eye -- he sees him leaning over the edge of the ship, blood tousled through his hair, his collar smoked, his eyes black and ominous. He smiles, the curve of his lips quiet, intelligent, chiseling lines into his face.

The next moment, he throws himself over the edge, his arms spread wide, as if he were flying, and Jonghyun watches him descend, watches him fade into the blue and the gray and become absorbed with the rest of the black.

“Yi is alive,” Minki says, and Jonghyun doesn’t hear him.

* * *

**1597**

It hurts him, and whenever he walks, he sees the swing of the tatters with him. They say that he could die, and he almost laughs in their faces. It is sour, this kind of wound, a wound that eats through his flesh and his bone until his arm is nothing more but black and bitter and frosted, but he can already see the new growth protruding its way through his dressings. He will have to change them soon, because the battered cloth will not sustain bulging flesh for much longer.

They say they are desperate, and Jonghyun chews on the last piece of salted fish flesh and swallows it gruffly. It rises back up in his throat, and he nearly spits it back out.

“Don’t waste food,” Minki chides, and Jonghyun smiles. “I refuse to eat your retchings.”

They dock on the sand pits. “They are already here,” Minki says, as he jumps off of the side of the ship, Jonghyun in tow, and Jonghyun can’t do anything but nod. His muscles pull him, and he winces. The sheath of his sword hits him in his knee, and it makes a scream as he withdraws the blade.

He sees them, crouched in the dunes just ahead, their rifles poised, and Jonghyun runs, because the pain in his arm is forgotten.

He meets him soon, and he is holding a sword too. Jonghyun hardly gets a glance of those eyes, of those black and ominous and unwavering pupils. He hardly sees the wind tousling his hair, blowing those dark strands across his forehead, shielding his nose and his lips and his temples, but not his eyes.

Jonghyun only sees him when he raises his blade above his head, and drives it right through flesh.

There is death all around them, more death than Jonghyun can fathom, and there is death right in front of his eyes, but the difference is that he can fathom this death.

“They should have not given him a blade,” Minki tsks, shaking his head. He whirls his own sword in his hand, and with a keen shriek the copper goes whirring through flesh, and Jonghyun can feel the splatter of hot blood against his cheek. “He was much better with a gun,” Minki adds.

“Thanks,” Jonghyun says, and when he glances down at the hand that grips the hilt of his blade, he can still see it.

He can still see it, even through the blood that’s coated his flesh.

It’s red, charred, just like the mottling on Minki’s own palms, but Jonghyun's marks are concentrated. They gather and dance around each other in two little shapes, balanced precariously upon each other at the tip, as if they are waiting for the day when one of them falls.

* * *

**1627**

Minki asks him if he dislikes war.

Jonghyun shakes his head. He does not dislike war, but he is tired of death.

“Vanity,” Minki comments, and he cradles the handle of his rifle, “that is you.”

“I don’t want any more of it,” Jonghyun murmurs. The late summer sun beats down on his back and burns through his skull. His hands are searing, and it is not because of the heat.

“No matter which side you are on, there will always be death,” Minki hums. “I don’t understand why we are here. I cannot even speak the darned language.”

Jonghyun wants to tell him that Minki doesn’t even need to know the language, all he needs to know is how to run and how to shoot and how to see blood that is not yours painting your own skin and feel no remorse.

But Minki knows that, he’s known it for a long time, and if Jonghyun had a wooden head he would assume Minki cared.

“If you are already tired of death, you will become tired of me,” Minki jokes, and he laughs the second afterward. Jonghyun finds his comment funny as well, but he can’t laugh. His tongue feels like it’s stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“This will be easy,” Jonghyun says.

“Vanity,” Minki replies, clicking his tongue. “It will spoil you.”

Pillaging becomes apparent. There is so much they could take. Jonghyun only has to raise his gun once, twice, maybe even three times, and he feels Minki’s hot palm on his shoulder. He has long lost the ability to feel remorseful -- he’s taught himself to nullify his senses. He does not smell blood anymore unless it’s his own blood, or otherwise his thoughts become too keen. He sees the smoke rising in the air in the distance, and his grip on his rifle loosens.

“I almost feel sorry,” Minki notes, and he clicks his tongue once more. “I almost feel like we are killing our own people.”

Jonghyun nearly says _We are_ , but then he remembers that he does not have a “people”. He smiles at Minki’s comment, and Minki smiles back at him, because he knows what Jonghyun is thinking. They do not have their own people, because time is their people, and time never hesitates to make itself known at the most convoluted of instances.

It is like God to them, except not God, because Jonghyun does not need God, he is his own God. Minki is his own God too, and when he stands up from the dirty pavement, the knees of his uniform ripped, his gloves stained black with soot, blood splashed over his face and his neck, he looks like God, because the light always shines on him. He places a hand over his brow and sees the smoke in the air, and he tsks. “We should go,” he says, and the next moment, Jonghyun hears Amin’s voice ringing through the air. “We should go.”

The forts, they are nothing but splintered wood and brick and sacks of flour and cans of food, and Minki notes how excited he will be, because he has not been able to eat canned lychees for a long time. But when Jonghyun rams through the door with his foot, he sees them all standing at the corners of the wood, their faces painted with white, skin powdered and ghostly, as if they are already wearing the shroud of death.

And Jonghyun sees him too, standing in the middle of the room, at his feet a broken rucksack and a pile of white.

Their eyes meet, and his face is daubed with repose. Even his hair, so dark and so intense, is speckled with death, and it’s almost as if his strands are fading color.

He holds his hands out next to him, and in one palm is a rusted blade, and in the other, a piece of flint, carved and crooked, one side broken off. It digs into his palm, and he drips blood into the pile of white. His positioning is as if he were weighing the advantages and disadvantages of being dead or alive, but the expression he gives says that he's already arrived at a verdict.

He smiles at Jonghyun, as if he knows who Jonghyun is, and the curve of his lips is quiet, intelligent, but most importantly, there is no remorse, even though his eyes are dark and sullied. Jonghyun can feel the bile rising in his throat.

He brings the blade up against the flint in his palm, and Jonghyun opens his mouth. It’s almost as if the shriek at that moment comes out of his own lips, but no, instead, he just sees the sparking of flame and he feels his skin burn and melt. The smile in his head thaws in front of his vision, and he coughs acid into the white and the red and the black. It burns his chin, dribbling down from his lips, and when he wipes it away, he wipes away the soot on his palm as well.

* * *

**1651**

Jonghyun has long outlived his family. He had long outlived them when he stepped foot onto the sand pits lining the peninsula and found nothing but the flame and the sun. He had long outlived them when he decided he disliked war. He had long outlived them when he went and chased the red sun across the blue water. Vanity, as Minki had said.

Minki is his only family left, if Minki could even be considered as “family”. He is not Jonghyun’s bloodkin, he is not Jonghyun’s friend, he is not Jonghyun’s lover, but at least Minki is there.

And besides, Jonghyun thinks Minki is the only “family” he needs. The only person he needs to sustain him.

However, that does not mean Jonghyun does not want.

“Where is your family, Gin-san?”

Jonghyun just laughs, shaking his head. The smell of the cherry blossoms invade his senses, and he finds the scent unbearable. He closes his eyes, for he is dizzy, and he falls backwards onto the wood, one hand shielding his eyes from the world.

“He is here,” somebody says, and when Jonghyun opens his eyes, he sees Minki there, with his hand outstretched to Jonghyun’s face, his fingers bony and pale, nails clean and kempt despite the dirt that flies in the air. He makes no noise when he walks. Jonghyun’s sandals scrape against the dusty pathway, and the sheath of his katana clicks with every nudge against his thigh.

It does not take long, for they are already there, and travel within the castle grounds is merely a casualty. He can already hear their shouts up ahead, and when he closes his eyes, he drowns those noises, and those noises drown him. He can hear the calm smile in Minki’s breath, and as Minki runs, he still slips through the air -- God, Jonghyun thinks, and his eyes are still closed, but there is a hand on the elbow of his that is braced.

“I am no God,” Minki whispers, in his ear, “you are not God.”

“But are we not?” Jonghyun asks, and his voice is breathy.

Jonghyun opens his eyes, and with a howling wail, Minki draws his katana from its sheath. He smiles, holding the blade in front of him. “We cannot be God,” he says, and with his free hand, he gestures to the sword.

“I wish I was God,” Jonghyun whispers, and that is the last thing he says before the sun gleaming off of the steel in his hand blinds him.

When Jonghyun finds him, he is already surrounded.

The wind is blowing. His tatters dance in the wind, hand-and-waist with Jonghyun’s eyes. Jonghyun thinks their dirt and blood are more beautiful than the cherry blossoms.

He sees him. There is no acknowledgement in his eyes, even when Jonghyun’s steps fade and his feet whir through the air. Nonetheless, his gaze is uncompromising. Dark, as if he were singing an omen.

“What is your purpose?” Jonghyun asks, and he almost closes his eyes, because he cannot bear the yellow and red that beat down on his vision. His skin is sallow, and when he briefly glances down at his hand, he sees the marks burn.

“My name is Ki Mineo, and I will not abide by your law. I will not accede to my own deprivation.”

Jonghyun has long conditioned himself to neglect the scent of the blood of others. There is more blood in the world than he can divine, yet the blood that paints his hands and his face at that moment is golden to him, golden like the blood of God, but it sears his flesh.

There is a stroke and a scream, from left to right, and he sees a smile that is not cunning, deceptive, nor wishful. But from it sprays that ichor, and Jonghyun runs his fingers over his cheeks, as if he were playing notes on a lute. He smears his palm in the gold and the red, and it becomes the same color as his mottlings.

He takes a step forward, and he sees the dribble of ichor down Mineo’s lips, and the last thing he remembers is watching those eyes tear apart the prophecy they’ve created.

* * *

**1776**

In this era, Jonghyun is a prince.

“I do not understand,” Minki says. “How do you write about God?”

Jonghyun sits on the red silk, and he dips a brush into ink. “You are home,” he tells Minki, and Minki breathes out a sigh, his lips singing in the air. They have returned, yet Jonghyun still wishes he were home. The silk sleeves on Minki’s robe are much too long, and when he falls backwards onto the wood, the royal blue splays out around him, as if he were bleeding his soul out and his blood was pooling around Jonghyun’s shins and feet.

There is a knock at the door, and Jonghyun need not glance up to know who it is.

“Your Highness,” he hears, and even though his eyes are trained on his paper, he can visualize him poking his head through the door, a quiet smile on his lips, dark locks hanging over his forehead. “I have brought your afternoon tea.”

He hears the slight clinking of silver against silver, and soon there is a tray set in front of his eyes and a pair of feet that wait for him. “Sit,” Jonghyun says, just as his brush draws another stroke.

His robe is still a plain blue and white, outlined in black, just like his figure. Minki sits up, his eyes trained on the room’s newest occupant, and he drums his fingers against the wooden table.

“You are finished?” Jonghyun asks, but his words are not a question. His brush pauses, and he glances up through the fringe that hangs over his eyes. “It will be beautiful,” he says, before he even receives an answer.

He does not hear anything, only the most quietest and intelligent of smiles, and he sets his brush down.

“What may you be writing about today, Your Highness?”

“God,” Jonghyun replies, simply, the word rolling off his tongue as easily as if he were to command “yes” or “no”.

“You write much about God, Your Highness.”

“He is quite a theistic character,” Jonghyun hums, and he picks up his brush once more. “He is not like you or I, and he never will be. We will never be like him either. Do you not think that is intriguing?”

“Yes, Your Highness. Your writing is quite beautiful.”

“You always say that.” Jonghyun shakes his head. He has long become numb to flattery. “I will be done by the next fortnight.”

But he slips the pages across the table at the next folding of the paper. The ink need not dry, and he lets it smear into the smooth yellow.

“What is the story today, Your Highness?”

“It is interesting how the world runs on a cycle, isn’t it, Minhyun?” Jonghyun murmurs, his fingers running over a corner of a page, “God likes to play with death, and so I have written about his sport.”

“It will be quite a tale, Your Highness.”

It is the first time Jonghyun looks up that afternoon, and he sees Minhyun gathering the pages in his arms, the sleeves of his robe pooling onto the wood table, dipping themselves into ink. His eyes are hidden from Jonghyun’s view, but Jonghyun can still see how they look.

Minhyun stands up, slowly, a hand grasped over the pages and folded over his chest, fingers digging into cloth, and Jonghyun sees his smile, he sees the lull of his lips and the keen in his teeth. They fold lines into his face that fade into his skin before vanishing. But behind that bright, Jonghyun sees the blight too. He sees their omen, and when Minhyun turns away, the swish of his robe flies searing heat onto Jonghyun’s skin.

“You should stop writing about God,” Minki says, before he falls backwards, the royal blue of silk fanning out from underneath him.

* * *

**1777**

Only thieves wander late into the night, and Jonghyun thinks that maybe he may be a thief. He tucks his hands into his sleeves, and his feet make shuffling noises against the wood.

“You are here, Your Highness.”

Jonghyun sinks down onto the wood, ignoring the pillow that is set off to the side. He places his hands on the table, running an index finger over the silk thread. It is a bright yellow-white, and in the dim light, it shines like the sun.

“Please, sit down on a cushion, Your--”

“I will watch you work,” Jonghyun interrupts, and he closes his eyes. He can still see the flickering of the candle flame through his lids and the spool of thread sitting in front of him.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

Jonghyun opens his eyes just barely, and he turns his gaze, his head hung low. Loop after loop, he watches the sunlight thread its way through the punctures, working under the nimble fingertips of someone who Jonghyun thinks could be God. “You are quite skilled,” Jonghyun notes, after he sees Minhyun draw a loop in a clover with the needle, pulling the binding tight. He hears the smile on those lips grow wider -- not quite with hubris, but rather, with an acute sense of presence. Maybe he is not null to flattery like Jonghyun is, even though Jonghyun has spoken the exact same words many times, to the point where it is a habit for them to roll off his tongue -- but he recognizes what he is, where he burns in the flame of the world, and that he is nothing more than what he can carry in his palms.

Jonghyun sees the pause in his movements, the climbing of his fingertips up his abdomen.

“Your Highness, I am a little fatigued.”

His fingers crawl up to his chest, his other palm resting neatly on the cover of the book.

“Rest,” Jonghyun says--more like whispers--and it is no more than a couple of seconds before there is the shift of weight onto his thighs, and he threads his fingers through those dark strands, stroking them away from their owner’s skin. He runs his thumb over the brow, black appearing underneath his fingertip as if his finger was the stroke of his brush.

He watches Minhyun’s hand rest there, right over his own chest, and he watches those fingertips dig into the cloth, as if trying to cage his soul. Minhyun’s hair is suddenly too hot, burning and charring Jonghyun’s skin, and he retracts his hand as if he were just scalded.

He sees the fold in the lines of Minhyun’s skin, this time harsh and severe, and Minhyun shuts his eyes, only to reopen them the second after, one hand still gripped over his chest, the other one clutched tightly onto the spine of the book.

“Minhyun,” Jonghyun whispers, and he places a palm on Minhyun’s forehead.

“Your Highness,” Minhyun murmurs, his lips hardly moving, “my heart is made of glass.”

And at that moment, Jonghyun sees the blight again, a whirring mass of black and red and white and yellow and orange, and it burns him, scalds the skin on his face until he can no longer breathe. It buzzes towards him, hovering in front of his nose, and when it spits, it spits out blood.

“I know,” Jonghyun sighs, and he lifts his head to the sky, holding it there, and closes his eyes.

When the candlelight dissipates, he opens his eyes once more and looks down at his hands.

Minhyun’s forehead burns his palm, but not as a result of searing heat -- his skin is so cold that it feels unbearably hot, and Jonghyun’s hands are sticky.

His fingers move down to cover Minhyun’s eyes, as if he were protecting them from the woe that is himself, but a prince can do nothing for an individual, only the masses, and there are bound to be casualties.

And when the book slips down Minhyun’s thighs to the ground, Jonghyun sees the plume of dust, bitter and black, rise up in the air.

He dips his head, and his fingers move from Minhyun’s eyes to his jaw, dancing along skin and cradling his chin in his hands. His hair is blacker than ever, blacker than a black Jonghyun has ever seen. It is the same exact black as the blight, and Jonghyun holds Minhyun’s head in his palms. When he looks down at his own lap, he sees the black spreading and staining the red silk of his robe.

* * *

**1801**

“I am sorry for this country,” Minki says, his thumbs hooked in his pants pockets. “Your stepmother is crazy.”

Jonghyun nearly barks out a laugh. “She is no longer my stepmother,” he notes.

The crowd up ahead buzzes, as if they were a hive of wasps preparing their poisons. Jonghyun hears screams splitting in the air and sees the spray of blood flying into the sky.

“I am sorry for this country,” Minki repeats.

They slip through the crowd silently like a pair of fish through the stream, almost as if they don’t exist, but Jonghyun feels Minki’s breath on his neck and a palm placed on his elbow, his grip hard and unrelenting, even though Jonghyun knows Minki does not care, but he must act like he cares -- it’s a facade he puts on, although Jonghyun is never fooled.

It is what makes a person a human--that is, to care--and Jonghyun sees the red shriek through the air. It mingles with the screaming as it cuts, slowly, one stroke by one stroke by one, and Jonghyun sees it hanging by a thread, dangling there limply like the head of a person that has been strangled to death, neck stretched and disfigured and imprinted. There is nothing more to this that is human than Jonghyun is to God. It is bubbling like a plague, black and scarlet flesh that rises in the air only to pop with a howl and spray froth all around them.

“No!”

There is a scream, a blinding rush of blistering heat and Jonghyun can only see red for that second, but Minki’s hand on his back is cold, freezing almost, and it all fades to white for him in that moment. But he feels his fingers digging into rough wool, pressure yanking on his wrist like a tug-of-war between the Devil and God.

“Sayeooooong!”

The shrieking is in his ear, yet it does not hurt him, at least not physically, but the hand of his that grasps onto wool is burning, blistering; yet his fingers are stuck, he cannot move it, like there is some divine aspect whose palm is placed on the back of his limb and is whispering in his ear to maintain his grip.

The keening of steel is what wakes him out of his stupor, and there is a blade poking barely against flesh, drawing the thinnest dribble of blood, but it’s not his blood.

He can finally let go, and he holds onto his wrist and cradles his limb like a prisoner who has just been released from his bindings. He sees the fall of black in front of him, and it floats in his vision for just the barest second until it dissipates, as if evaporating into the atmosphere -- but no, the black is still there when he looks down, there are those strands falling over his face, covering his eyes and his lips and his temples and his nose--

“Do not interfere. This is the punishment for heresy. If you choose to disobey, then he will be you.”

He rolls his head over, and his hair falls to the side, his eyes wide, and Jonghyun feels a pull on his wrist by a hand that is too hot to be a hand. Jonghyun's vision is dark, as if he were viewing the scene through the eyes of the man below him, whose pupils are no longer shiny, but still sing him a prophecy.

* * *

**1876**

“Here is this week’s catch,” Mineo says, as he carries the bucket into the room. His hands are muddy and his boots are frayed at the toes, but he still walks with the stance of a man who is more than Jonghyun wants him to be.

“How long until you must return to sea?” Jonghyun asks, and he sinks down into a chair, resting his head on his arms.

“They will call me a traitor,” Mineo replies, and his voice is quiet, solemn, but his eyes give Jonghyun the answer he wants to hear.

“I’m not like them,” Jonghyun murmurs, as he watches Mineo sit down in the chair next to him, “This treaty does not create a parasitic relationship. I enjoy eating fresh fish every week.” He sees Mineo smile, almost laugh, because they both know the lie in Jonghyun’s words, and Jonghyun most certainly cannot see what is right out of reach of his fingertips, but he most surely can _feel_ what it is. He hands Mineo a piece of fruit, and it’s a blood red apple, even though they do not have apples here, but somehow Minki had managed to obtain apples. When Mineo bites into it, Jonghyun sees the blood red seep through his lips, which were once a gray-purple. He can taste the sharp tang of iron in the air, acute and striking like the ringing of the death toll.

And when Mineo swallows, Jonghyun sees the bob of his throat and the bob of his chest too, and there will be fingers grasping over that area, digging into threadbare cotton and worn flesh, and he will just sit there and smile and continue to chew.

There is that smile in his eyes too, but to comfort is to deceive, and Jonghyun can see nothing but the plague, rearing its grotesque head into the sky and shadowing both of their faces; for a moment, Jonghyun wishes he were Minki, whose skin is always bathed in a pale yellow, but Jonghyun is as similar to Minki as he is to God.

They are both in this divine shadow together, and Jonghyun leans forward and licks the blood away from Mineo’s lips, as if he were sucking away the bile of the plague, but it is all nothing but burning blood to him, and his mouth is blistering into pustules that pus but do not hurt.

And when he later watches Mineo stand on the dock of the ship, Mineo’s wave is not in the air, but over his heart, his fingers twitching erratically on his chest and wrinkling the cloth there. He still smiles, but Jonghyun sees the water below him slowly turn from a gray-blue to a dark black, and his hand never leaves his chest.

* * *

**1926**

“The weather is beautiful today, isn’t it?” Minki hums, tucking his knees up to his chest and looking up at the sky.

Jonghyun cannot say anything, because Minki is joking. There’s already a storm up ahead, and Jonghyun can see the scattering of bodies around the plaza. Time is only a casualty, and the rolling of thunder up ahead mirrors the stomping of the guns. Jonghyun has nothing, a blade will not help him, he only has himself and his feet, and so he just curls his fist around Minhyun’s wrist because Minki is already a flash of light, but Minhyun is still red and black and there and Jonghyun tells him they have to run.

There is more than just the guns Jonghyun is running from, because he feels the hot breath of the Devil over his neck, whispering to him that the blight will be back, and sure enough, he hears the buzzing, he can see that smile in front of his eyes thawing again, and all of a sudden his feet are gone, he is gliding in the air.

But there is Minhyun, and he is as much like Jonghyun as Jonghyun is like God. Jonghyun looks down at his fist wrapped around Minhyun’s wrist, and he all of a sudden feels those mottlings flaring, searing through his skin and eating away at his flesh even though they are a part of himself.

He sees the edges of Minhyun’s face, right where Minhyun’s hairline is, bleeding black-red as his fingers climb up to his chest, and he heaves for breath like a fresh prisoner heaves for their repentance. There is a scream when Jonghyun stops and runs his hands over Minhyun’s chin, cradling his jaw, but it is from neither one of them, because they both have lost the ability to scream. Jonghyun is no longer fearful of the guns, but instead, he is terrified of himself, because he sees Minhyun sinking down into those licking flames and Jonghyun himself is falling with him, Minhyun’s head still cradled in his palms.

“My heart,” Minhyun murmurs, “the glass.” He looks up at Jonghyun, his hair covering one of his eyes. Jonghyun needn’t see both to know that Minhyun is still smiling with them with that quiet and intelligent disposition of his, but he is too weak to hide the blight, he always has been. And then when he coughs, his fingers digging into his chest, Jonghyun sees sprays of golden ichor from his lips, as if he were slowly being dismantled from the inside, but to Minhyun himself, he is nothing more than a casualty and the ichor is his soul bleeding out of his body.

Jonghyun can do nothing but inch his own palm up to Minhyun’s lips and wipe away the gold. He covers Minhyun’s breaths, the air puffing against his hand like a fire licking at his skin, and he can hear the roar of the dragon in his ears again--no, the roar of the Devil--and Jonghyun looks directly into Minhyun’s eyes and hopes he can stifle his suffering.

Jonghyun’s hand releases when Minhyun’s fingers relent, and Jonghyun sits there on his shins, palms clasped over his ears, fingers digging into his head in an attempt to strangle away the red that bleeds into the corners of his vision, until there is a hand on his shoulder and Minki says, “We should go.”

* * *

**1968**

Jonghyun raises two fingers and tugs on the strap of his helmet, adjusting the fit. The hand that grips the handle of his rifle is damp along with the atmosphere. Minki jumps down from a ledge, landing softly next to him. “They are running,” he says, but Jonghyun has known that for a long time.

They are told the brush is supposed to hide them, but the brush also hides their objective. There is the cawing of crows as they flock up into the air and disperse, like the cloud of a bomb dropped in the desert. “You can hear them, can’t you?” Minki asks, and Jonghyun can just barely nod, because his head feels like it’s been pressurized from the inside out, as if a divinity were gripping his temples between the strength of its palms.

Their footsteps are nothing but imprints on air as they run towards the gunshots and towards the cries, and Minki tsks, “They could be more discreet.”

“They are not trained as snipers,” Jonghyun replies, and Minki laughs at his response, his voice ringing through the trees. The birds no longer fly, because there are no more birds. It is only them now, those that are supposed to be something akin to God, but they are nothing like God, even though he and Minki are close to God.

There is one final shot, shrieking and splicing the air, and Jonghyun sees the splatter of blood right in front of his eyes, even though he is still running.

“They failed,” someone says, and Jonghyun sinks to his knees. “The President is still alive.” Jonghyun places his palms in the dirt, digging his fingers into the damp soil and raising his head to the sky.

They are only so much far ahead, the rest of them, Jonghyun can see their figures crouched around the shrubbery, but he can also see much more than that -- he can see through their eyes, he can see they way they’re looking at the ground, at the black and the red and the gold. His hair does not cover his eyes, but for once, Jonghyun wishes, wants, _prays_ it does, because he can still see the smile in them, those eyes and that quiet and intelligent smile -- and while his lips are not smiling, the lines are chiseled into his face as if he were. Jonghyun feels the acid rise up in his throat, and he claws up at his neck, because it is closing, and all the bile is bubbling up through his lips, only to drip onto the forest floor. He can smell it, he can hear it screaming his name, and when he looks down again, he sees him, except this time he’s different, because there’s the crawling of gold on his skin, painting him the most beautiful Jonghyun has ever encountered, and he suffers.

* * *

**1992**

They crouch there, their palms placed on rusting yellow paint, and Jonghyun shifts the position of the handgun in his palm, his cheek pressed against the cool metal. He can hear them screaming, he can hear the glass breaking, the sound of wood against flesh and the ringing of gunshots resounding through the air, but his lips can only twitch as he waits there, his nerves braced.

“I hope they don’t steal too much,” Minki hums, fiddling with cartridge on his own handgun.

But Jonghyun does not have a wooden head, and he is aware of what Minki really means. In this era, they are foreigners, they are ridiculed and condemned to the confines of their own circle in a land where they are promised open arms. There are others just like them, forced into their own cages for what it is worth, and Jonghyun believes that the land of freedom is no more to him than his so-called “homeland” under the fat fist of another foreigner running their fingers through the seeds, spreading and separating every single grain and only nourishing those that he believed were divine.

Jonghyun does not have to shoot today -- what he sees is no better and no worse than everything else that’s passed through the veil of his vision, but he still feels the red-hot on his palm, and when he glances down, it is flaring, his skin, as if he were a star slowly collapsing in on itself.

Minki is no longer wearing his gloves, and Jonghyun sees the whir of scarlet as he watches him flip his gun, his mottling still as vivid as Jonghyun can remember.

“They did this,” he hears, when he kicks apart the splintered wood paneling in front of him, the rubber of his boots crunching on glass, the sound emitted similar to if someone were to step on a pile of bones.

His hair, splayed against the wood, is tousled with blood, his cheeks covered in it, in streaks of crimson as if he were crying his own blood, and Jonghyun suddenly sees the glass embedded in his own fingertips, and he holds up his hand.

The shards, they shine just like his eyes, they shine just like the keen in his teeth and the lull in his lips, they shine like the blade that’s been driven right through him, unrusted and unmarred except for the staining of crimson and the speckling of black.

“They did this to him,” Jonghyun hears, and he reaches his hands and cradles his slovenly head in his palms, digging the shards in his own fingertips even deeper until he himself is dripping blood. Jonghyun sees the golden ichor, and it mingles with the scarlet, trickling down his neck, onto the table, and down onto the floor, where it sizzles, bubbles, and evaporates.

“Wrong time, wrong place,” Minki whispers in his ear, and Jonghyun’s handgun clatters to the floor. He sees the blackened metal liquefying into the blood, yet the colors do not mix.

* * *

**2016**

In this era, Minki is called his “friend”.

They will embark on a journey together, they are told, and Jonghyun cannot do anything but accept his future, because it was never decided by him in the first place. He cannot move his feet, they are limp, and all he can do is sit on his bed and stare at the wall -- at the wall he’s stared at for the past six years, yet is ever changing. He hears a whisper, and there is Minhyun, staring through his doorway. He tells him to come and sit, and just from three words, he feels the rushing in his head.

“How do you think you will do?” Minhyun asks him, and Jonghyun can’t say anything but deceive, because he is comforting, and Minhyun leans into his grip even though he himself is most likely aware that there is nothing but deception in the air, yet his eyes still gleam and water, just like the sea that Jonghyun remembers.

“You are leaving me behind,” Minhyun says, his words muffled by his own lips and by the cotton clinging to Jonghyun’s skin. He grasps his hand over Jonghyun’s chest like he’s gripping the one over his own, his nails digging crescents into flesh just as deep as his teeth bite into his lip and draw blood, blood which Jonghyun cannot smell.

“Why is it me?”

He knows his own answer only as far as he can remember, but Jonghyun knows his answer as far as Jonghyun can remember. It has always been Minhyun, it will always be Minhyun, whether he be Minhyun or he be Mineo and whether they be in the East or the West and whether they be young or old or workers or bourgeoisie.

“My heart--”

Jonghyun can see the clench in his jaw, the tensions in the muscles of his neck, and Minhyun’s fingernails dig deeper into both their flesh -- it is painful, but it is not a pain compared to a pain that Jonghyun wishes he could see with his own eyes. He can only view part of it, sitting in his lap, and the rest will be hidden from his sight for forever.

“My heart is made of glass.”

* * *

**2017**

“You cannot do this to yourself,” Minki says, his hands in his pockets as he stands next to Jonghyun.

There are flowers tucked into the pocket of Minhyun’s black suit jacket. They are pink and purple, the colors Jonghyun has never seen in his entire life. It is unsettling to him, staring down at Minhyun like this, because Jonghyun has seen so much death in his life, but never death that was clean, pristine, neat.

When he places a hand on Minhyun’s chest, he digs his fingernails into the black silk, right over the heart, and tries to imagine the pain, but it will always be shielded from his vision. When he takes Minhyun’s hand in his own, he cradles it like he cradled Minhyun’s jaw all those times before, like he is holding something precious and priceless in his palms, something one-of-a-kind, something deadly. The flesh is cold, and Jonghyun’s hands do not burn.

“Why you?” Jonghyun whispers. This is the only question he has ever asked in his entire life that he does not truly know the answer. “Why you?” he whispers again -- why you, the person that has only ever wished for nothing but what you needed, the person who walked through his lives with only purely objective purposes, the person who fell and rose so many times even though he always failed in the end? Why -- why the only person Jonghyun has ever felt could be his anchor--

Jonghyun closes his eyes and cradles Minhyun’s hand in his palms. His fingers are burning, they are scalding, he feels like his flesh is being ripped apart from the inside, and red paints the black of his vision.

He falls forward with a single wish in his thoughts.

* * *

Minhyun wakes to the sound of a melody.

Something in his fingers tingle, and when he glances at his hand, there is a mottling of red climbing up the bottom of his palm, skimming its way over his flesh. When he lifts his head and stares, he sees a man in the far corner of the room, fingers tapping against the keys of a grand piano, his head hung and staring at his hands.

Minhyun glances at his own hand once again, and there is another palm placed upon his.

Jonghyun’s fingers are nothing but cold -- so cold that Minhyun’s palm is burning, but he cannot make himself let go. Minhyun could think that Jonghyun is sleeping, but he will not.

There is a dragging of a sensation in his chest, right over his heart, and his fingers climb up his skin. He places his palm right over the feeling, and his fingertips dig into his flesh.

Where once there was a biting ache, there is now a jarring pain.

If he gouges his fingers into his chest enough, he can feel the cool smoothness of something below his skin, only for rough and jagged edges to appear a moment later, sharp enough to slice his fingers--

It’s as if his heart were really glass, and it is breaking apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept of this work is actually based off of [with stars and sand in our palms](http://cointossed.livejournal.com/8975.html) by portaldice @ LJ (which, by the way, is one of my favorite fics I've ever read). Hey portaldice, if you see this, thank you so much for letting me use your AU! I hope my rendition of your original idea did the beauty of the concept justice. :)
> 
> As always, big thanks to V for looking over my work and doing her little analysis thingy -- what would I do without her? If we want to make poor jokes, she's basically the straw to my berry. Harharhar.
> 
> "Chapter 2" of this work is essentially the timeline of events. It's completely optional to go view it -- you don't need to see it in order to understand what is going on, but for some of you, it might answer a question or two about the work that you may have. :)  
> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> My [Twitter](https://twitter.com/zhujungjungting) and [Weibo](http://weibo.com/5662188900/profile) are always open -- please come and say hello! ❤


	2. Timeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline of events.

**1592:** Admiral Yi embarks on his 2nd campaign during the Japanese invasions of Korea. It is during the Battle of Sacheon when Yi first deploys the [turtle ship](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BsDJ9zzPARI), and the Japanese navy is unable to circumvent the mass of flame and gun and cannon fire from the Korean warships.

 

**1597** : Won Gyun, having replaced Admiral Yi as the commander of the Korean navy fleet, flees to Gadeok Island in search of food and other supplies after the Japanese destroyed thirty Korean warships in a battle where another naval commander abandoned Won Gyun during the attack, taking his twelve ships with him. Unbeknownst to Won Gyun, Gadeok was under Japanese control. The Japanese and Koreans exchanged both gunfire and melee attacks, with 400 Korean marines being killed.

 

**1627:** During the Jin invasion of Joseon, under the leadership of the Later Jin (now a part of China) prince Amin, the Jurchen army advances towards Anju after the Ming commander Mao Wenlong flees after hearing of their advancement. The forts at Anju are quickly overwhelmed, and after realizing that defeat is inevitable, the Anju soldiers commit suicide by blowing up their gunpowder stores.

 

**1651:** Dissatisfied with the treatment of the samurai and feudal lords, a group of ronin attempt a coup d'etat against the Tokugawa Shogunate. This event, known as the Kei'an Uprising, failed when one of the conspirators revealed the plan after becoming bedridden with a fever and talking during his sleep. The other conspirator, Yui Shosetsu (or, in this case, Ki Mineo) carries forth with the plan, unaware that the situation had already been foiled. He is surrounded at Sunpu Castle by police, and to escape arrest and execution, he performs seppuku.

Side note: I have no clue what Minhyun's Japanese name is, so I decided to come up with one. I translated his name into Chinese -- I could not find characters for the Chinese equivalent of 'Minhyun', but 'Hwang' in Chinese is 'Huang', or 黄. Japanese and Chinese use the same characters, and the Japanese pronunciation of '黄' is 'Ki'. For his first name, Mineo, I simply selected a Japanese first name that utilized 'Min' and a single character afterwards (similar to his Korean name). His full Japanese "name" is '黄峰夫', and when that is read in Chinese, it translates to something similar to "golden summit husband" -- i.e. the best husband, which I thought was quite befitting of Minhyun.

 

**1776-1777:** The Kyujanggak Royal Library is established by King Jeonjo of Joseon. Many divine writings, especially those of the King himself, are kept there.

 

**1801:** Queen Jeongsun orders the mass persecution of Catholics (known as the Sinyu Persecution) in Korea in order to hide the political persecution of her opposing faction in government, which was less hostile to Catholics. Hwang (Alexander) Sayeong, a Korean Catholic, attempts to send a letter to Catholic priests in China, detailing the persecution and asking for intervention. Sayeong's letter was intercepted, and he is arrested. He is later executed in the middle of Seosomun by the act of lingchi (or "slicing" -- this is quite a grotesque way of execution. I wouldn't recommend you look it up unless you can handle human disembodiment -- but then again, you've read this work.)

 

**1876:** Queen Min (Empress Myeongseong) closes doors to European powers and invokes a stance of isolationism. Previously, Western countries had failed at negotiating with Korea; however, the country was undergoing a period of political instability. Driven by the prospect of protecting its independence from the colonialism of Western powers, Japan develops a plan to influence and exert force over Korea before Western countries could, and thus the Treaty of Ganghwa Island was signed. Within this treaty, several Korean ports would become open to Japanese merchants, where they could trade with no interference and take up residence.

 

**1926:** Students all over Seoul (including middle school students) demonstrate against the Japanese occupation of Korea. The military was deployed to deal with the protesters. This movement became known as the June 10th Movement (6-10 Movement), as it occurred on June 10th.

 

**1968:** A group of men from the Korean People's Army train in a special operation commando unit with the objective of assassinating the South Korean president at his home in the Blue House. This raid, known as the Blue House Raid, failed. All but one of the original thirty-one commandos are killed, including several that tried to flee back over the demilitarized zone that separates North and South Korea.

 

**1992:**[Korean-Americans](https://imgur.com/WrFvUXP) living in the heart of Los Angeles experience physical damage to their stores and communities (of which, death and bodily harm are included) and must protect their storefronts during the 1992 Los Angeles Riots, which were a series of riots, lootings, beatings, and more sparked when a tape of Rodney King being beaten by police provoked the discussion of mistreatment of racial minorities by the police and excessive use of force. 

 

**2016-2017:** This is the only event in the story that is fiction. The scene where Minhyun appears at Jonghyun's doorway is partially taken from my other 2hyun story, [on the empty paper, just two of us (we are drawing together)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10750143).

 

**Spoiler below. If you wish to read, go on ahead!**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Essentially, what happens is that Minhyun replaces Jonghyun in this cycle. The person who gave Jonghyun his immortality in the beginning was Minhyun (although the Minhyun portrayed in this timeline does not remember any of his previous lives).


End file.
